Betwixt and Between
by IcarusWing
Summary: After the crash, the Kirkland family is left forever changed and one member short- or so they thought. It's not easy growing up as a ghost, but somehow Matthew will have to make it through, even if they only person who can see him is his twin brother.


**A/N: So I'm starting a new fic, even though I probably shouldn't be because I haven't updated A Mile In My Shoes yet... and Tell Me I'm Dreaming needs to have some work done... though I'm working on them, I swear. I don't think this is going to be very long, maybe be only two or three chapters, but we'll see. Please read and review, as always.**

* * *

**Betwixt and Between**

**Chapter One**

**In The ****Beginning**

Alfred doesn't understand.

He sits in the front row, uncomfortably hot in his little black suit, but he knows that Arthur will scold him if he removes his jacket. The overwhelming scent of a thousand flowers begins to tickle his nose, and, try as he might, he is unable to fully stifle his sneeze. _Achoo!_

Arthur sits next to him, holding his hand tightly as he stares stonily up ahead at the old man on the podium. He hasn't smiled in days, and this makes Alfred worry.

Arthur has told him that Mattie isn't going to live with them anymore, and that they've come here to see him off, but that can't be true. Sure, the boy in the box may _look _like Mattie, with his soft caramel hair and that one curl in the front that's always separated from rest, but he's obviously an imposter. He isn't warm like Mattie, and he doesn't smell like maple syrup, either.

Arthur had told him to pay attention to the old man's speech, but it's full of confusing words, and the heat is making Alfred sleepy. His eyes slowly shut…

He feels himself being hauled into warm arms, and cracks open an eye to find everyone in the hall rising. It closes again, and he lets the familiar rhythm of his brother's footsteps lull him back into half consciousness, hoping that when he wakes up, this will all be over.

* * *

"It's time to wake up, Alfie."

He rubs his eyes as he is set on the ground, clutching Arthur's pant leg for support. He watches as the little coffin, the best Arthur could afford on a part time salary, lowers into a hole in the ground.

"Say goodbye to Matthew, Al," murmurs Arthur.

"Goodbye, Matthew." Even though Alfred knows better, Arthur has been acting strange for days, and Al knows that it's always easiest to play along. Adults can be so silly sometimes.

"_Isn't that the twin? Why isn't he crying?"_

Alfred turns his head curiously toward the whispers falling from the lips of two women standing a couple of feet away. Hey, he and Mattie are twins! Maybe the fake Mattie has a twin too? He toys briefly with the idea of a fake Alfred running around, but he decides that he wouldn't like him at all if he was as cold and unfamiliar as the boy in the box.

"_You know how it is. He probably doesn't even understand what's happening, poor dear."_

Alfred cranes his neck to look around for the other Al, but he's the only little boy in in this garden of stones.

They stand for a long time, longer than Alfred can ever remember standing, and when the old man stops talking, people begin to trickle away, exchanging quick words of sympathy with Arthur, who is trying to maintain a "stiff upper lip," as he calls it.

They don't leave until two men begin shoveling dirt into the hole and Alfred's feet are aching. He looks back as they walk away, wondering who the little boy in the ground could be.

* * *

The rain begins to fall as they pull up in front of the little house that now has one resident less. They run up the front path, Superman and Harvard Medical School umbrellas flapping in the wind as they open the door, slipping noisily inside.

Grief, if anything, seems to make Arthur even more methodical. He places his umbrella in the tin beside the door, his coat on the rack, and his shoes on the floor, taking care to align them exactly with the floor boards. Alfred, on the other hand, continues on in his wet shoes, paying no heed to the mud that his brother will clean up in the morning.

He mounts the stairs, unsettled by the quite darkness. He never walks these corridors alone. He's always with Mattie or Arthur, because everyone knows that monsters only attack you when you're on your own. He looks back, but Arthur is opening the alcohol cabinet, and he decides that the monsters are less scary.

He takes one step at a time, slowly, clutching the banister. The only light comes from below, and the hall above is alive with shifting figures, leering faces that beckon to him. _It's been a long time since we've last seen such a tasty looking boy. Come, join us for dinner._

He takes a deep breath, and charges.

He tears through the darkness, swiping with his arms as far as they can reach. Fear drives him toward the only place where he's tall enough to reach the light switch, the only place he feels safe. When he reaches his room, Spiderman and Captain America will protect him—

He bursts through the door, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he stands, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. The rain is pouring down his window, and the melody is calming. He kicks his shoes into a corner and shrugs off his jacket, about to fling it onto his bed when—

He hears it.

Sniffling.

There, in the soft glow of the nightlight, hovering above his bed was—

A ghost.

Al freezes, the metallic taste of fear flooding his mouth as he stifles a gasp and clamps a hand to his mouth. _Don't call Artie don't call Artie don't call Artie. _He can hear his heart beating a tattoo against his ear drum, deafening, yet somehow not drowning out the quiet noises the spirit was making. What is it doing, curled up like that? Is it feasting on its newest victim? What if it's eating _Mattie?_

He pushes his fear aside and grabs his trusty Nerf sword, bringing it down in a slicing arc. "Die, ghost, die!" he shouts, whacking at it again and again.

Unfortunately, it passes straight through the form, and therefore has little effect. The ghost lifts its head, startled, and suddenly everything's okay, because he's here.

Matthew.

_This _is definitely the real one. Ghosts are evil with white everything and soulless red eyes, but Matthew's irises are their usual blue, and the rest of him is full of color, though significantly paler. His eyes are full of the same fear they always are whenever Arthur comes home especially late, though it always turns to relief when he realizes that he hasn't abandoned them forever like Mom and Dad. However, it doesn't go away, even though they can clearly hear the _clink_ of a bottle from the kitchen.

There are milky tears falling down his half transparent face, distorting his eyes behind his rectangular glasses. He's in the same clothes that Alfred last saw him in, a white T-shirt with a red maple leaf on the front, and a pair of cargo shorts. Nothing has changed other than the fact that he's no longer solid, and all the bandages are gone, his leg is back to its regular shape.

"Hey Mattie, don't cry," says Al, dropping the sword as he climbs onto the bed, forgetting his brother's appearance in the face of his tears. "What's the matter?" He tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but it sinks through.

"A-Al, I don't know what's happening," says the little ghost, hugging his knees to his chest. "Artie can't see me or h-hear me, and I can't pick things up, and I keep sinking through s-stuff. At first I was in the h-hospital looking at _myself _in a bed, and then the doctors told Artie that I was dead and I tried to tell him that it wasn't true, that I was right there, but he wouldn't _listen _and he just left and the doctors took the other me away and put him in a drawer in a really cold room and t-t-then…" He trails off with a sob, and Alfred warps his arm around the form, taking care to hold him as close as possible without actually going _through _him.

"It's okay, Mattie, I'm here. _I _can see you," says Al. He's always been the big brother, and it's his responsibility to comfort his little brother, whether he be tangible or not. "We'll make Artie see you, too. Maybe he just wasn't looking hard enough," he suggests brightly.

"Y-you think so?" Matthew looks up, hopeful, and Alfred knows that he has to do everything in his power to help him.

* * *

"Pew pew pew! Pew, pew pew pew!"

Ace pilot Alfred Kirkland-Jones flies through the skies in his P-39 Airacobra, gunning down the evil Nazis in his path. Yes, folks, this will be another Allied victory, all thanks to—

"Alfred, what did I say about running in the living room? If you break anything, it's on your head," says Arthur, who's lying on the couch with a glass of water and two tablets of Aspirin. He'd hit the bottles again last night, but his hangover doesn't stop him from scolding the would-be pilot.

"Sorry, Artie," he chirps, though he continues to run with his model plane, adding sound effects whenever he deems necessary. Matthew floats along behind him, wishing that he could lift a toy airplane but content to watch. He listens to the running commentary streaming from under his brother's breath, watching in fascination as he executes a complicated looking turn, narrowly missing an expensive looking vase sitting on Arthur's reading table.

"Whew, I'm starving!" exclaims Al after a while, panting from exertion. Being a hero sure does take a lot of energy.

"There are leftovers on the counter," says Arthur, voice muffled by the pillow over his head.

Alfred scampers into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. "Wow, Mattie, was that cool or what? I almost thought they had me for a second there," he says, hoisting himself onto a stool and reaching for the over-sized bowl of spaghetti, digging in without bothering to reheat it.

"You were really brave, Al," says Matthew fervently. He's always wanted to be like Al. He isn't fearless, but he never lets that stop him from _anything._

He watches longingly as Alfred eats. He doesn't need to eat anymore, but he can't even if he wants to, which he _does, _so very badly. But he doesn't tell Al, because he'll only feel bad, and he's done so much already.

Despite his efforts, Al notices him staring. "D'you… d'you wana try?" he asks hesitantly, proffering his fork. Matthew pauses for a moment, before opening his mouth wide. Alfred sticks it in, full of pasta and dripping sauce. He can't chew it, he can't swallow it, but he can _taste _it, and it's the best sensation he's experienced since his death.

They finish the bowl like this, Al wolfing down a few forkfuls before transferring the fork to the air where the inside of his twin's mouth is, and Mattie thinks that maybe, just maybe, things could turn out alright after all.

* * *

"C'mon, Matt, you were doing so good! Try it again."

Matthew concentrates as hard as he can, and soon his hand begins to tingle once again. He touches the action figure, running his hand along the painted surface and marveling at the fact that it's not sinking through.

"Great!" encourages Alfred, clapping his hands. They're sitting in the middle of their bedroom, and Matthew's hand is a little bit more opaque in the golden gleam of the nightlight. "Now, see if you can pick it—"

"Al? Al, who are you talking to?"

Arthur pokes his head into the room, staring about in groggy confusion. His hair is ruffled and Alfred can tell that they had woken him with their voices.

"Sorry, Art!" he says, summoning his sunniest smile. "Mattie and I were just practicing picking things up. He's doing real well!" he insists earnestly. "Here, show him, Mattie. Go on, pick up Batman."

Matthew tries, he really does, but try as he might, the toy keeps slipping through his hand.

Alfred looks a bit disappointed, but he doesn't let that deter him. "Next time, okay?" he says, before turning back to Arthur, noticing his horrified stare for the first time. "Hey Artie, what's wrong?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

Arthur's eyes are unusually shiny and Alfred could swear he was going to cry, but he knows better, because Arthurs never cry. He says nothing, crossing the room in two steps and engulfing the little boy in his arms. "Al, I had no idea that… it's okay, everything's going to be fine. We're going to get you the help you need, I swear it. I… I know a few people, I'm sure I could get in touch with an inexpensive mental health professional." He seems to be talking mainly to himself at this point, and Alfred is baffled, but remains still. Arthur had always been a little strange, but he loves him anyway.

He catches Matthew's concerned eye, and extends the hand that isn't trapped. Matthew focuses for a moment, before taking Al's hand in his own, now semi-corporeal, one.

They stay like that, peacefully, for a long time.

* * *

_The road ahead of them is dark, so dark, but the headlights aren't working and there's nothing to be done about it. The moon is a sliver in the sky, a pale ark that shines fragmented through the treetops. Alfred and Matthew sit in the backseat, drifting off and being jolted awake by potholes and bumps in the uneven road, again and again._

_In the front sits Arthur, his eyes squinting as he tries to discern the dirt of the road from the surrounding gloom. He knows this street well, but one can never be too careful._

_Ah, the bend was coming up. It's a tricky turn, and he slows to look for it._

_VROOOM…_

_He hears it, but where is it coming from? Ahead, behind, or around the bend?_

_He has to make a decision soon. He takes a chance, and turns. _

_By the time he sees the single head light, it's already too late._

"_ALF—"_

* * *

Arthur wakes in cold sweat, the cast around his arm itching. He moves around franticly in the dark, searching, and calms at the feeling of the soft, warm body curled up next to him, sleeping, undisturbed by nightmares.

Alfred had been calm about all this. Calm enough to cause Arthur a great deal of worry, as a matter of fact. His own twin, and he just _moved on, _as though he had never existed. No, not quite.

As though he was still around.

Arthur sighs unhappily as he unconsciously pets Alfred's caramel hair, lost in thought.

After a few minutes he rolls over, but not before feeling the most curious breeze, a current of cool air moving almost lazily across him.

_I'll close the window in the morning…_

* * *

"Letsgoletsgoletsgoletsgolets go—"

"Alright, _alright, _calm down," says Arthur, crouching down to zip his brother's coat, sliding it up to his neck. The morning is unusually chilly for September, and they have a long walk ahead of them.

"What do you do before you cross the road?" Arthur asks, pausing and tugging Alfred back by their linked hands.

"You always _always _look both ways," Al says, peering up and down the empty street, double checking just in case.

"Hey, Artie," he begins after they had darted across the narrow street. "Why don't we take Uncle Franny's car? Or let the bus pick me up?"

Arthur coughs uncomfortably. "Francis isn't your uncle, and he needs it for his own reasons. I just thought that walking would be nice, since summer is ending and soon it won't be warm enough to, is all," he says.

"I wanted to take the bus," Alfred pouts. All the cool kids took the bus to kindergarten, or so Sadiq had told him, and he was a year older and from a country called Chicken and that meant he was never ever wrong.

"Maybe he'll let us take it tomorrow," says Matthew softly from his right. He shadows Alfred almost everywhere, gliding along silently beside him, not touching the ground for fear of sinking through the crust of the Earth and never being able to return. It's a quiet existence, though it livens up when Arthur isn't around and they have the silence of the bedroom the practice.

Practice is difficult, to say the least, but Mattie desperately wants to be able to play with his twin the way they used to, so he tries as hard as he can, and he's beginning to improve. He can pick things up, stay in one place, and even change his clothes.

The one thing he cannot do, however, is become visible.

They arrive at the school, and Matthew pretends it doesn't bother him when Arthur only wishes one of them luck.

* * *

"…and I ran the fastest out of all of them, Artie, I swear I did! And then after lunch it was math time but I didn't want to do it because I was drawing an awesome picture of Superman saving the world but then Ms. Braginskaya said that if I did really well then I could finish it after so I did it for her because she's really nice."

"It's nice to see that you're having fun," says Arthur from his post at the stove, sautéing onions in a pan. "Have you made any friends?"

"There was this kid named Kiku who I sat next to, but I don't want to be his friend because he's from Japan and that's where the bad guys live," scowls Alfred, munching on his after school cookie.

Arthur, who had been crossing the kitchen for a glass of milk, drops his spoon. "Who told you that?" he demands.

"Daddy always said so. He said they fought against us during the war and that that made them the bad guys," says Al, a bit less sure of himself.

"Alfred, look at me," says Arthur, a deep frown on his face. Alfred notices with a start that his forehead has the beginnings of permanent wrinkle lines. "We're not at war now. The difference between a good man and a bad one isn't what he looks like. It isn't where he lives, either. It's what _he _does that defines his character." He notices Al's perplexed expression, and his face softens. "What I mean is, it doesn't matter where his parents are from. He's never done anything bad to _you,_ so you should give him a chance, okay?"

"But… but Daddy said…"

"Don't listen to Daddy," says Arthur sharply. "He's gone. Listen to _me _now."

"Alright," says Alfred, still a bit uncertain.

"Then you'll make friends when you see him tomorrow, okay?" Arthur smiles, ruffling his hair. He glances back and yelps at the smoke rising from the pan. "Ah, the onions—!"

* * *

After a rather burnt meal (Arthur had never exactly mastered the skill of cooking), Alfred and Matthew sat in the center of the room, while the former pretended to be asleep.

"Artie says I make friends with Kiku, but I don't know if I want to," confesses Al as he fiddles with an action figure.

"Why not?" Mattie asks, surprised. Al has always been eager and open to making friends, and he often drags his less sociable twin with him on his attempts.

"If he's gona be friends with us, I want him to be friends with both of us!" Alfred looks deeply troubled, twisting and twisting the arm of his toy, as he's wont to do when he's agitated.

"We… we could tell him. And you could talk for me," suggests Mattie hesitantly. The idea of having another friend enticing, though it almost seemed too good to be true.

"We'd make him pinky promise that he'll never ever tell a soul. Artie says that if you break a pinky promise, they have to cut it off!" He gestures to his own pinky with wide and serious eyes.

"Let's do that tomorrow then," whispers Mattie.

"But let's sleep first," says Al, yawning loudly. He climbs into bed, curling up in the covers.

Matthew watches over him through the night.

* * *

Matthew knows that he would be able to feel the excitement bubbling in his chest if he had a body, but he contents himself with imagining the feeling.

It's lunch time, and he follows Alfred to the far end of the classroom that would be rather small if they were any larger. Kiku sits alone, tucking in to a strange and colorful lunch that Mattie makes a note to ask him about at a later date.

"Hey, Kiku!" calls Alfred, chipper as ever. "Can we sit with you?"

Kiku looks up from his lunch, surprised and a bit wary. He nods, though, and moves over on the bench.

Alfred, who knows nothing of tact or subtlety, jumps straight to the point. "Kiku, can you pinky promise that you'll keep a secret?"

"I-I guess," he says, accepting the proffered pinky.

"My brother Matthew's a ghost and he wants to be friends with you."

Kiku's eyebrows draw together, confused and a trifle hurt. "Are you playing a trick on me, Alfred-kun?"

"No, I swear!" Alfred wills honesty to ooze from his every orifice, using the same look he always used when he wanted to get Arthur to believe something, although this time a touch more genuine. "Mattie, show him! Pick something up," he commands.

Matthew reaches forward, imagining his heart pumping, tingle spreading from his chest to his throat and spilling from his mouth in the form of all the conversations they might have.

He concentrates, harder than he ever had before, and picks up Kiku's lunch box.

Kiku sucks in a breath, glancing around to make sure no one is looking. "…Matthew-kun?"

"H-hello," he replies, breathless.

Alfred happily relays the message, and Matthew is soaring.

It's the beginning of a beautiful thing.

* * *

**A/N: So what do you think? Yes? No? Maybe so? Drop down to that little box and leave a review, they're great and I love them all, even if they're about how terrible the story was and how I should never ever write again...**

**I was going to change the ending, but I ended up being too lazy... ah, well, Mattie gets a friend. Yaay! Be prepared for a time skip in the next chapter, and anyone with ideas is welcome to share, though please don't be offended if they're not used. Read and review if you love these two~**

**By the way, updates might be a bit slow, because I have a big interscholastic competition coming up and then an anime convention right after that (still need to make my cosplay), but I'll work on this as often as I can, I hope.**


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